  IIThere’s a sea-way somewhere where all day long Is the hushed susurrus of the sea, The mewing of the skuas, and the sailor’s song, And the wind’s cry calling me. There’s a haven somewhere where the quiet of the bay Is troubled with the shifting tide, Where the gulls are flying, crying in the bright white spray, And the tan-sailed schooners ride. IIIThe toppling rollers at the harbour mouth Are spattering the bows with foam, And the anchor’s catted, and she’s heading for the south With her topsails sheeted home. And a merry measure is the dance she’ll tread (To the clanking of the staysail’s hanks) When the guns are growling and the blood runs red, And the prisoners are walking of the planks. |
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